Cold Case Connection
by BellaDonna24
Summary: When Sherlock discovers the corpse of one John Watson, the motive for the murder is unclear. The mystery quickly absorbs the detective and unlocks a whole new side of him as he faces a battle with himself as well as his Arch Nemesis.
1. Chapter 1

**Goodness knows how long it's been since I last published. This is a story I have been meaning to develop for three years or more and I will be **  
**looking to make it a proper multi-chapter fic. I hope you enjoy it and that I'm not too rusty haha.**

* * *

A crow on a sunny day; that was the image conjured by the sweeping figure of the Consulting detective as he approached the crime scene. The dark coat rustled behind the man like large wings and the detective's dark curls shone blue-black as crow's feathers. The beak like nose and dark eyes had been reserved for the other Holmes brother, yet Sherlock's eyed shone with a bird of prey's cool interest as he leant over the corpse.  
"So? What happened to the poor man?" Lestrade questioned, his tone somewhere between mocking and wonder at what his unofficial colleague would be able to reveal.

Sherlock stood bent over the corpse, perilously close to falling onto the blood stained body, sniffing, probing – _observing. _Finally he spoke.  
"Military man judging from his hair and placement of defensive wounds. Medical training though, so – Army Doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq. On his way to his Psychologist. He has an brother whom he doesn't get on with, possibly because he likes his wife, but more likely because he disapproves of the drinking that caused a split between him and his wife."  
Lestrade raised his eyebrows, impressed, but all he said was "I guess now you're going to tell me off for calling you in on a murder with such an obvious cause of death; we need help though Sherlock, the motive..." Lestrade never got to finish his reasons for needing the detective however as he was interrupted. " Nonsense Lestrade, surely Anderson didn't believe this farce of a stab wound? Clearly he was stabbed post mortem and fresh blood smeared in the wound. Oh he did? Well, clearly you all need some help then." With that, the large, crow-like man swept off with much the same Grecian drama with which he'd arrived.

That night Sherlock stood by the window of 221b, plucking at the strings of his violin. Around him lay sketches of a man, lying in a pool of blood, a surrounded in stark detail, by every inch of this morning's crime scene. One drawing stood out however, it was a detailed portrait of the victim's face. Unlike most corpses, his expression registered neither shock, nor that peaceful sleep which often embraced the dead. Instead his features were shuttered, creased as though he was in the middle of a night terror. There was something more intimate about this drawing it conveyed the artist's question about John Watson's last moments.  
John Watson, the motive for murdering this man puzzled Sherlock Holmes as much as it had Lestrade. John Watson, "John Watson", the name mumbled softly as Sherlock absent-mindedly tapped the violin bow against his lips. The man had not been without enemies – a concept in which there invariably was a fatal flaw – so much as that he had not had enough contact with anyone over the last five years, to create any enemies. Having studied at St Bartholomew's Hospital he had various jobs as GP and doctor in the E.R before enlisting to the army. Besides being a brilliant and effective surgeon on the battlefield, saving countless lives, he seemed to have had few personal interactions, let alone altercations. Who was this man? What was it that he was missing. Filled with a tranquil energy, Sherlock once more began to pace the floor, playing his instrument as he went.  
There was a mystery here and by God he would find the answer.  
Sherlock smiled, _the game is on._

**Thank you for reading, please review if the fancy strikes.**


	2. Chapter 2

Okay so I'm trying to update roughly once a week even if they are short chapters, but that's as much because of where they seem to end  
naturally, as me having to get back in the swing of writing prose. I hope you all like this on, let me know :)

* * *

"I want Anderson off the case!"  
"I can't do that and you know it!"  
"Just say I can't work with him."  
"_You're _not even supposed to be here."  
"Oh that's just because people are idiots."  
"Perhaps, but those ''idiots'' are your government."  
"My brother owns the government!"  
"Yes well sadly that wont give you any perks as long as you insist on referring to him as your "Arch enemy""  
The look Sherlock gave Lestrade would have been fit to kill, had a sulky pout not distorted his haughty features. On the other hand, there was something to be said for the macabre effect of the genius' perch on top of a mortuary slab, the post mortem report supported by the chin and collar bones of a nearby corpse.  
"Anderson's entire team are idiots!" Sherlock stated for the tenth time that morning; a derisive hand cuffing the report. "They still insist it was the stab wound that killed him! Let one of my doctors re-do the autopsy."  
"No."  
" Molly Hooper is at her sister's wedding not ten minutes away. Given that the sister is the younger of the two, Miss Hooper's own relationship status, the unavoidable presence of extended family at such events, and such family's ridiculous interest in such matters she would no doubt be more than willing to come."  
Lestrade suspected that insufferable aunties had very little to do with Miss Hooper's willingness to drop everything for the cuttingly handsome detective, yet Greg's own eagerness to see Molly, coupled with his wish to get Sherlock off his back was enough to make him concede.  
"Fine, text her."

Half an hour later the young doctor silently came through the doors of the mortuary. Despite the younger sister's obvious efforts to conceal the girl's sweet beauty with a tradition guided ghastly bridesmaid's dress, a thick veil and coat would have been required to obscure the lovely features of Molly Hooper. Only a man like Sherlock could remain unaffected in her presence, yet it was precisely that man for whom Molly came running.  
"So this is the man whose autopsy you want me to perform?" Molly asked, not seeming remotely put out or curious about the reason Sherlock required a second autopsy on a man with a shredded hole in his abdomen. She never doubted Sherlock. Molly bent over John Watson's corpse, pearing into the clouding eyes.  
"He looks... nice, friendly. Why would someone do this to him." She mused under her breath, already sinking into the meditation of observation. What surprised Lestrade however was Sherlock reaction. Rather than a scathing remark on such sentimentality, or even stoic silence, Greg could have sworn he heard the detective quietly breathe his agreement.  
"Exactly."


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm running slightly behind schedule, but this is a longer chapter so I hope you'll all forgive me.**  
**Enjoy**

* * *

It was hours since Lestrade had arrived at the mortuary. He was getting sick of it, probably literally considering how cold it was in here. Some hours ago Greg had gone out and got coffee for everyone, not that either of his companions had drunk them; Molly had smiled slightly, politely, in thanks. Sherlock, well Greg never really expected anything from him anyway. It was probably for the best that Scotland Yard's investigation wasn't going anywhere, having to choose between Sherlock and his team made Lestrade uncomfortable, it was like having to choose between your children when one of them was clearly brighter than the other; this was an issue that was bad enough when he had to deal with that at home with his own children, work was meant to be a break from all that. Actually... it probably shouldn't be. Before the detective could start down the road of family related guilt however, he heard Molly place the last tool back in the metal tray and head towards the sink to was them.  
"Here, why don't I do that?" Greg offered despite his revulsion at the sight of cooled blood clinging to the metal. Molly smiled tightly but didn't give up her tray.  
"I'll do that, you put Mr Watson back in the refridgerator." came a cold purr from behind them, Sherlock lightly lifting the tray out of Molly's greatful hands.  
For an instant Lestrade felt a sharp pang of jealousy and wounded pride. It must have shown, as Molly softly mumbled.  
"Sorry, Protocol."  
Of course, he wasn't a trained doctor of any description, he couldn't be _trusted _to steralise the equiptment properly; Sherlock on the other hand, clearly knew his way around here and had every degree one could want for disinfecting scalpels, Greg thought bitterly as the handsome freelancing consultant flashed a smile at Molly. Usually it was easier to deal with Sherlock's obvious superioroty to everyone around him becaude – usually – he was being such an arse that one just didn't notice his darkly angelic looks and genuinely good intention buried so deep. However, when Sherlock committed one of his rare acts of niceness it was hard not to feel a pang of inadequacy. Especially when he saw the blood rush to Molly's cheeks in response. Greg decided that it was all enough.  
" So what did you find Miss Hooper? Anything to add to my team's report?"  
" Besides a bin?" quipped Molly in a rare moment of pride. "There's little else to be done with that travesty of a report."  
"I told you she would find the truth." Sherlock joined, "so what was cause of death for Mr Watson?"  
"Suffocation, of sorts, they..."  
"Wait, what? You mean he was bled to death?" Lestrade ejaculated, disbelief mixing with his respect for the young doctor to create a strained incomprehension.  
"What about peticial..."  
"I said of a sort detective; they inserted thick needles into the arteries near the victim's brain stem, essentially creating a loop for the blood to go back into the veinsgoing back to the heart, bypassing the brain and depriving it of Oxygen."  
"But what about the stab wounds?" Lestrade interjected again.  
"They syphoned off some of the blood from the loop I just described, once the victim was dead they carved him up and used the additional blood to make it look like the wounds were infliced perri-mortem."  
" Why on earth would enyone go to this much effort?"  
"I'd say it's a serial killer trying to obscure his signature by creating a more evident cause of death."  
Lestrade had to admire the young woman's innitiative.

"We've never come across anything even remotely symilar though, never."  
"Obvious." Came a signature drawl.  
"Oh yeah? What's so bloody obvious to you?"  
"Obviously they were trying to send a message, to get someone's attention."  
"But whose?" Asked Lestrade, genuine;y curious about this srange story.  
" Well that is elementary Lestrade, they were sending a message to the only person smart enough to figure it out..." Sherlock had already halfway out the doors when he finished his conclusion.  
" Me, Detective, they were sending a message to me."

Of course they bloody were.

* * *

**I took some liberties on the forensics in the sense that I don't think this has ever been done (why would you if not trying to send a message).  
However, from my basic Biology knowledge it should work... let's not test it though.  
Please review if you have some time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ok so the once a week thing isn't quite on schedule but the chapters are lengthening. I hope you guys are still with me and enjoying it. This chapter was rather difficult to write because I was plotting along the way. We're starting the main drama soon! YAY**

* * *

Sherlock walked the streets of London in a daze. Well, what other's might call a daze; his mind was racing, running, pounding  
the pavements of his mind. He needed to organise his thinking; this case wasn't going to be cut and dry, Sherlock would need his  
mind-palace to be properly organised.

Turning on his heel, he stuck up his hand and called out for a taxi; immediately one came to do his bidding.  
"To the Coliseum Theatre, driver."  
As the driver headed in the indicated direction, Sherlock sat back and waited.

Built in the earliest part of the 20th century, the Coliseum theatre was elaborate without the level of class which would have made it grand.  
Detailed, frilly illustrations adorned every inch of the Opera theatre. Sherlock enjoyed the well maintained feeling of far gone glamour that  
suffused the out-dated halls; they reminded him of the Opium dens he visited in his youth. He had a standing reservation in one of the  
box seats (not that he paid for them, he had once don the owner a small... favour).  
As the curtain fell he felt the darkness calm his mind. The music rolled over him as the orchestra began to play and the leading lady sang.  
For ten long minutes Sherlock allowed the music to absorb him completely, filling him until nothing else remained.

Slowly thoughts once more began to fill the detective's mind. Only a short amount of time had  
elapsed, the singing continued – but now as a background to his mind's own music.  
What did he know about the murder?

Observation – The fact that John had been able to defend himself meant that the killer was certain of his victory.  
Observation – There was no hesitation in the cuts or the medical insertion of the needles.  
Observation – The crime scene was staged and practise, but not public – directed at one person.  
Theory – John Watson was the victim of a serial murderer who had killed many people without ever leaving a trace,  
to whom this was merely the start of a new game. A game he intended to play only with me, anyone else was a pawn.  
He wouldn't allow any mistakes.

A cool smile twitched Sherlock's eyes and a flame lit up his eyes. He had suspected all this since he first laid eyes on John Watson, yet  
to have these details so nicely organised and put away gave him a sense of contentment.

What to do though? This psychopath craved an audience, it was true, but he wanted an audience of one – he wouldn't be sending  
idiotic 'letters to the editor' to get himself caught.

Storming out of an Opera would usually be considered the greatest faux pas; however, Sherlock's storming was the movement of a  
shadow as he ghosted into the night. A thick fog shrouded the city in darkness, Sherlock wondered whether he should just leave  
things as they were for now. He could go to Angelo's, eat something, or just sit in the warmth of a busy restaurant.  
No, Sherlock made a quick (dare we quietly say, instinctive) decision. He would return to the murder scene. There may be some new  
detail he could discover, some clue as to the whereabouts of the actual murder site.

The bank of the Thames was silent this time of night. The moon lit up the damp rocks with an ethereal glow, the sound of the water  
lapping at the shore almost drowned out the sounds of traffic somewhere in the distance.  
As Sherlock approached the area where he had first encountered John's corpse he noticed an inconsistency in the shadows  
overlaying the water's edge a few meters away. Brandishing his mini Maglite he neared the area in a few large strides.  
The tight beam of light wasn't enough to light up the whole are all at once. One sweep of the light however, was enough  
to reveal a human body, a second sweep made it all to clear that the body was no longer warm.

A corpse lay on the Bank of the Thames for the second time in as many days.

Sherlock, dialled Inspector Lestrade's number and waited.

* * *

**I would really appreciate some reviews just to let me know what you think, good or not. Thanks :)**


End file.
